God—I love Fugelsang.

A number of years ago, long before I got into medicine, I was working as a loan officer at a bank, putting my wife through school.

One day, this old guy in a baseball cap came in and wanted to talk to me about getting a loan. Rather than sit down at my desk, he insisted on taking me aside and walking around a little while he talked to me about what he wanted. It was a little weird. He kept telling me about all the great entrepreneurial things he was going to do with his loan, and boasting about his credit rating. He behaved as if he was taking me into his confidence. You would have thought he was asking me personally to lend him the money. I think he fancied himself a real wheeler-dealer, horse-tradin', canny, savvy kind of businessman.

I told him he would have to go through the application process like everyone else, and I got him to sit for an interview, with all the appropriate screening questions uploaded into the bank's lending software. As I'm sure you can guess, he was rejected for the loan on a credit basis and a loan history the exact details of which escape me right now.

He acted personally affronted, as if I had callously rejected him after he was so man-to-man and avuncular with me. Who did I think I was? That kind of thing.

Now that I'm no longer obligated by a financial employer to have to listen to these clowns, I give them a wide berth if I encounter them in real life. And I usually keep my hand on my wallet while I do.